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"Your mistress, I fear, is ill, Agatha," he said to the tire-woman,
when the Lady Maude had sought her chamber.
The maid looked aslant at him with laughing eyes. "It is not an
illness that kills," quoth she.
"Pray God not!" he cried. "But tell me, Agatha, what it is that
ails her?"
"Methinks that I could lay my hand upon another who is smitten
with the same trouble," said she, with the same sidelong look.
"Canst not give a name to it, and thou so skilled in leech-craft?"
"Nay, save that she seems aweary."
"Well, bethink you that it is but three days ere you will all be
gone, and Castle Twynham be as dull as the Priory. Is there not
enough there to cloud a lady's brow?"
"In sooth, yes," he answered; "I had forgot that she is about to
lose her father."
"Her father!" cried the tire-woman, with a little trill of
laughter. "Oh simple, simple!" And she was off down the passage
like arrow from bow, while Alleyne stood gazing after her,
betwixt hope and doubt, scarce daring to put faith in the meaning
which seemed to underlie her words.


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